Two Books In My Pocket

I never really knew Uncle Jack. I do remember that he was fun to be around. There was plenty of laughing. And drinking. Actually in my family there was also plenty of fighting. And there was one particular fight that cut him off from me right when it would’ve been nice to have him in my young life. He was my father’s uncle, my grandpa’s little brother. And what happened between Grandpa and my Great Uncle Jack is a story for another writing. Of course it was petty. These things always are. Suffice to say, we had to essentially cut ties with him so as not to alienate Grandpa. But by then he was living in Los Angeles and had started seeing success as a novelist. I always liked him, although I really didn’t remember much about him.

He sure remembered me, though.

My dad called me a week before the lawyer did. I noticed that dad sounded a little upset. He had always liked Uncle Jack. He said he and mom would be going to Los Angeles for the funeral. I guess they no longer cared if they made Grandpa angry about it. Or maybe it just no longer mattered. Anyway, there was no way I could go. I was in my junior year as an English Lit major in New Orleans and exams were in a week. Anyway, I couldn't afford a plane ticket right then. My parents only had to drive up from San Diego so it was easy for them.

The headline read, "Jack Harker, 87 year old novelist best known for his worldwide best-selling but controversial work, The Dead Children, succumbs after prolonged battle with bone cancer." People that knew me, especially my fellow English Lit classmates, were aware of my famous uncle, but they also were aware that I didn't talk about it much. The ones who were planning on writing for the money figured it was because I was being modest so as not to score any favoritism from our professors. The romantic ones, the ones who planned to write the great American novel before they let their misunderstood geniuses succumb to the ravages of drink, or so they hoped, figured I was just embarrassed because my uncle wrote popular fiction. The ones who were planning on becoming lawyers never spoke to anyone, anyway.

What none of them knew was that I wanted to be a novelist like my uncle. I had read all of his works. My real reason for never speaking about him was that I was afraid. I didn't want people asking questions. Asking if I was going to follow in his footsteps. I was afraid of trying to do this thing and failing. I had tried to write, but I never saw it through. I had so many ideas in my head. I was full of stories, or at least parts of stories. I saw them everywhere. How did he do it? How did he finish a novel? I could not see myself doing it. With all of my imagination, even with all the characters and stories and places and smells and tastes and feelings floating in my head, one thing I could not imagine was me, finishing a novel.

The lawyer called me a week to the day after the funeral. He woke me up from a nap. “Phineas Harker?” the voice asked. “Yes,” was all I could come up with, still bleary eyed. He said he was calling from the New Orleans office of my late Uncle Jack Harker’s Legal Counsel in Los Angeles. “Huh?” I actually said that. “I’m one of your late uncle’s attorneys, Mr. Harker. I’m pleased to advise you that you have been named in his will.” My mouth fell open. “Huh?” I did it again. “Is there any way you can come to our office today? We’re located downtown on Canal Street.” I had started to call my dad twice before my cab arrived, but stopped. I wanted to tell him. But, I was too thrilled to talk to him. And scared. This was kind of intimidating.

Doubleday, Holden, Nguyen & Brown is huge. It took up an entire floor. I was seated in a very comfortable leather chair, the kind I could never afford myself, in Mr. Holden’s office. His secretary asked me if I would like anything. I smiled and shook my head. Was this really happening?

“I just need you to sign a few necessary documents,” Mr. Holden said. His secretary and a law clerk were there. So I signed. I initialed. They witnessed. I was given copies of everything and a manila envelope. The secretary and clerk were gone. I was still sitting there. It all happened so fast. Mr. Holden smiled at me from across the desk. I couldn’t move. I was still too intimidated to open the envelope. “There is a copy of your late uncle’s will in there, as well.” “Oh, good.” I said. He kept looking at me. “Do you have any questions for me?” “What? I mean, what have I..” I fumbled. “I would suggest that you open it when you are alone,” he offered. “I can tell you now that it’s not a million dollars or anything like that. But you should be pleased with it. Your uncle obviously wanted to do something for you.” He finally stood up.

There was a lobby with huge waxy plants and enormous modern commissioned paintings and sculptures downstairs. A huge stone lined waterfall fell into a trench cut into the floor right in the center of the lobby. I sat in one of the modern chairs near the waterfall, one that didn’t have other chairs near it, and looked at the envelope. I took a deep breath. “Here goes.” I opened it. There was a small, pocket sized little black book. Brand new. And a plain white envelope that said “Phineas.”

“Finny: By the time you read this, I shall be dead. (I always wanted to write that!) Now, I’m sure you don’t remember me, but I certainly remember you. Even though our family is not the lovey-dovey type, I took to heart something you told me. Do you recall telling me all those years ago that you wanted to be a writer like your Uncle Jack? No one had ever told me that they wanted to be like me before. So, you’re it! Well, a writer writes. Are you writing? If not, you should be. Hence, the little black book. I always found it helpful to keep one to write down daily observations. Can you believe one of the ones I used while writing The Dead Children just sold on eBay for $217K? And it was only half full! You know, Robert Louis Stevenson said, “I kept always two books in my pocket. One to read, one to write in.” Sound advice. You can’t always have a laptop or a voice recorder to use. Sometimes you just have to write it down. Do it the old fashioned way. Like the masters. Write it ALL down. The stories will come. Remember, you can never force them out. And listen, I’m sorry I wasn’t around while you were growing up to give you this advice sooner, but our families were never the friendliest bunch of people. Well, that’s about it. Oh, I almost forgot. I am also enclosing a cashier’s check for $20,000. Of course, you will do with it what you will. But, I will also tell you what I want you to do with it. Listen carefully. Well, read carefully. I want you to go see a Ms. Iris Hernandes at The Dog House Animal Rescue in New Orleans. And I want you to give it to her. That’s it. If you want to know, she’s the one that got away. Everyone has one. Well, she’s mine. Okay. Gotta go now. Dying of cancer. Have fun! - Uncle J”

Lying in bed that night I stared up at the ceiling. How could I not? Keep it? No! How could I not do what he wanted? It was true that the money would go a long way to paying off my student loan. And I could get a car. Oh! Never mind! Of course I was going to bring it to her. If only because I’d hate myself for the rest of my life. Besides, I love dogs. Why didn’t he just mail it? Then it hit me. Of course! The one that got away! He wanted his old love to have this but didn’t want his wife to know (his third, by the way), so he left it to me. Sneaky. And very trusting.

Iris Hernandes was tall and trim and a very pretty woman. I wondered how she and Uncle Jack had met. A story I’ll have to get later. The Dog House was her baby. She ran it and took pride in her animal rescue efforts and in her staff. Our interview was brief and very noisy. I figured she didn’t have an office because she said we’d have to talk in the front area. The building was mostly cement and metal so everything echoed. The sound of barking dogs was everywhere. “So, YOU’RE the nephew! I’ve been expecting you,” she said. She knew all this already? “I believe you have something for me?” I was glad I brought the check. What if I had spent it and she had tracked me down looking for it? She obviously knew who I was. I handed the check to her. She smiled at me. Sparkling eyes. “Stay here a minute. I have something for you.” She disappeared through swinging doors that I’m sure led to the kennels. Please let it be a puppy. When she reappeared she had in her hand a manila envelope. Another one? I was beginning to feel like a bag man for the mob. “Wait until you’re alone to open it,” she said. Then, “I’m sorry I have people waiting for me in my office.” She DID have an office. “Okay. Thanks.” I said. She smiled again and was gone. Definitely a story there.

I sat on a bench outside, as far away from the people going in and out of the building as I could get. I opened the manila envelope. Again, there was a small, pocket sized little black book, almost identical to the other one except worn and obviously used, and a white envelope that read “Phineas. Again.” I refrained from opening the book just yet. I opened the envelope. This time it said, “Finny, You are a good nephew. Thank you for honoring my wishes. The enclosed little black book is full of my original notes from when I was writing The Dead Children. Well, this one is now yours. And remember, ‘... one to read, one to write in’. - Uncle J”

I have both books on me as I write this. In a little indie coffee house that always smells vaguely of patchouli about a block from my apartment. I really don’t like patchouli, but I love coffee. And as I look down at my cup, I know my coffee must be cold. I wonder if they can warm it up. Looking up I see a young woman with pink hair and blonde roots, standing at the condiments station. She is wearing a mask, even though it’s no longer necessary. She takes a small plastic spray bottle from her purse and grabs a paper napkin. She sprays the napkin, then proceeds to grasp the very edge of a packet of stevia in her left hand as she lightly wipes it with the napkin in her right. She is disinfecting the stevia packet before she pours it into her tea. I need to write this down.

But, as you can see, I already did.